


Do Scientists Dream of Cloned Sheep?

by paenteom



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Accidental Midnight Cuddles, Hermann's yaoi hands, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8911126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paenteom/pseuds/paenteom
Summary: Newt fumbles with the key card before he finally manages to swipe it, throws the door open and freezes.There's only one bed.It's massive, and covered in the fluffiest blanket he has ever seen, but it's undeniably singular."Uh," he says. "Awkward."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cypress_tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypress_tree/gifts).



> This is a holiday gift fic for cy [cypress-tree](http://cypress-tree.tumblr.com), my long lost twin clone and the one person I will admit loves my sons more than me, who asked for bed sharing and pining and that's what she'll get.
> 
> Happy holidays, dude. Hope you have an awesome time and that you like your present. <3
> 
> Thank you to flux [flux--and--flow](http://flux--and--flow.tumblr.com) for beta-ing this for me and for rightfully pointing out that Hermann would never use imprecise time measurements; you're a star.

By the time Hermann and Newt arrive at the hotel, the sun has already disappeared behind the skyscrapers. Their flight had dragged on for hours, with Newt squashed between a husband and wife who would not stop bickering at each other over his head and Hermann in the aisle behind him, his long legs uncomfortably wedged between Newt's seat and his own.

"I know the PPDC isn't exactly rolling in money lately, but if I have to sit through one more eight hour economy flight I'm quitting my job," Newt says, dragging both his and Hermann's suit cases behind him.

Hermann always protests when Newt wrestles the handle from him at every airport they've been to so far, but Newt knows he appreciates it anyway.

Next to him, Hermann's movements are sluggish, jerky. His breathing is labored and he's leaning more heavily on his cane than usual.

"I don't know why you are complaining," he says, somehow still managing to inject airy superiority into his tone. It's a pretty amazing gift, Newt's gotta admit.  
"It's not like small spaces provide any difficulty for you."

"Dude, why do you have to go for the jugular every time?"

Hermann flashes a smile, even though it's slightly dampened by the grimace of pain his face settled into ever since they touched on the tarmac. Newt's stomach does a little flip anyway, and he turns his face away to hide his answering smile.

"Go sit down," Newt says. "I'll handle check-in."

His French is limited, but he manages with the help of hand signals. He shoots a look to Hermann sitting in one of the arm chairs by the entrance with his eyes closed, clenching his fingers into the fabric of his trousers. Newt impatiently shifts his weight from one foot to the other until the reception clerk finally hands him the key.

The elevator ride up is mostly silent. They're both tired and grumpy and dreading the presentation tomorrow, so even Newt doesn't really feel like talking.

He hates doing this, prostrating himself in front of idiots in suits who wouldn't recognize a scientific miracle if it came out of the ocean and tried to colonize them. They've been traveling all over the globe for almost a month now, begging for help and funding and permission, and getting nothing but condescending comments and bad hotel breakfasts out of it. Newt just wants it to be over at this point.

He knows Hermann feels the same way, even if he'd never say it out loud. He's kept quiet about every single humiliating ritual they've forced him through ever since the PPDC started losing favour. To anyone who didn't know him well, it'd seem like he never had an opinion on anything his superiors make him do at all.

Newt knows better, though. He has letter upon letter in a little box under his bed to prove it, covered in coffee stains and crumpled from accidentally falling asleep on them, but always carefully smoothed out and stashed away. He has email upon scathing, bitter, hilarious email saved on a small USB stick dangling from his key ring, filled with curses about the UN, and mandatory meetings, and plans for walls.

It would be worse if he had to do this alone, Newt thinks. Knowing that Hermann is with him every step of the way makes it easier.

The hallway to their room seems to go on forever. He hears Hermann’s tiny sigh of relief when they finally arrive at 555. Newt fumbles with the key card before he finally manages to swipe it, throws the door open and freezes.

There's only one bed.

It's massive, and covered in the fluffiest blanket he has ever seen, but it's undeniably singular.

"Uh," he says. "Awkward."

He's reasonably sure he booked a double bed room when he made the reservation. Now that he thinks about it, he dimly remembers the reception clerk asking him the same question he didn't understand repeatedly; he eventually just nodded because he was impatient to finally get some sleep.

"I can go down and ask to switch rooms?" he says, but Hermann is already limping past him, toeing his shoes off on the way.

"I am exhausted, Newton, and I want to sleep," he says, and dips face down onto the mass of cotton, his clothes still on.

He sighs in relief and stops moving entirely.

Newt stands in the open doorway, unsure of what to do. He wets his lips with his tongue and nervously scratches at his neck.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," Hermann says, his voice muffled by a pillow.

"I get kinda handsy at night, you know. I'm a terrible bed sharer."

"Newton," Hermann says, finally lifting his face up and giving him a weak glare, his eyes tired and red, "if you do not immediately close this door and quiet down, I will be forced to make you do the budget portion of our presentation tomorrow."

Newt slams the door closed and is halfway across the room before Hermann has even finished speaking. He knows that's not an empty threat.

He sits down on the edge of the bed and starts to unlace his boots.

"Don't you wanna take that suit jacket off, at least?" he says, giving Hermann a worried glance. "That can't be comfortable."

Hermann groans quietly, but pushes himself up on one trembling arm and shrugs out of the tweed jacket. Newt quickly averts his eyes when Hermann begins unbuttoning his shirt and focuses very intently on his own shirt buttons instead. His ears are burning.

He avoids looking in Hermann's direction while he awkwardly twists out of his jeans by jumping on one leg, and by the time he's sliding underneath the sheets Hermann is already curled up underneath the blanket, hugging the pillow.

Hermann’s eyes are closed, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks and leaving small, soft shadows behind. His mouth is slightly open, breathing slow and relaxed. He looks different like this, somehow younger. Newt wonders if this is what he looked like when they first started writing each other, before the war had deepened the worry lines around his eyes and froze his mouth in a permanent frown.

He shakes himself out of it, and turns his back to Hermann, squeezes himself as close to the edge of the bed as he can manage. The only sounds in the room are the low hum of the air conditioner and Hermann's quiet breathing. He lets them both lull him to sleep.

Newt wakes up, disoriented, in pitch black darkness. He's sweating uncomfortably into his undershirt and it takes him a few seconds to place his surroundings. He blinks blearily at the clock on the night stand next to him until the smudges of color turn into actual digits.

4:21 AM.

He tries to place the warm weight at his back and shifts backwards, and suddenly there's an arm curling around his stomach and Hermann is sighing gently into his ear, breath ghosting over his skin.

Newt freezes.

His sleep-addled mind drags itself to waking mode at rapid speed. He can make out the details now, Hermann's other arm on the pillow above him, Hermann's leg haphazardly thrown over his, Hermann's hair tickling his neck.

Newt is uncomfortably aware of the way his breathing has gone flat, chest rising and falling in shallow exhales underneath Hermann's warm hand.

He slowly tries to inch forward out of Hermann's arms, but Hermann just tightens his grip on him and mumbles something into his neck, lips moving against Newt's skin in a way that makes his breath hitch and the hair on his arms stand up.

"Herms," he whispers against the pillow. "Hermann."

Hermann sighs and presses closer, all warm and firm and _right there_. His fingers curl into the cotton of Newt's undershirt, and Newt lets out a fluttering breath.

Maybe he doesn't have to wake Hermann up. In fact, it would be kind of cruel, wouldn't it? He's had such a long day, and he must be so tired; he deserves the rest.

That's definitely the only reason for why Newt wants to just close his eyes and go back to sleep. It's not at all because he likes the comforting warmth of Hermann against him, around him. That would come dangerously close to feelings he tries not to think about, ever.

He swallows around nothing, mouth dry. Slowly, tentatively, his hand comes up to cover Hermann's on top of his stomach. Hermann lets out another soft, content sigh and presses his face into Newt's back. Newt can feel his every exhale, even through his shirt.

He closes his eyes, and concentrates on the rhythm. It's not long before he's drifting off back to sleep.

When Newt wakes up in the morning, Hermann's side of the bed is already empty. He blindly fishes for his phone on the night stand and swipes the alarm off, then lets his head fall back onto the pillow.

It's unacceptably early, which means that Hermann has probably already been up for an hour or longer because he's a weirdo. Newt can hear sounds coming from the en-suite bathroom, and blinks in the direction of the door.

He wonders if Hermann was still spooning him when he woke up this morning, wonders if he minded. His cheeks burn at the memory of Hermann's skin against his, and he angrily rubs his hands over his face in embarrassment.

 _Don't make this weird, Geiszler_ , he thinks to himself. _Just be cool_.

"Hermann?"

"One moment."

Hermann's voice is muffled through the door, but Newt can already tell that he's in a better mood than he was yesterday. The door opens and Hermann sticks his head out. Half his face is still covered in shaving cream.

"What did you want?" he says.

Newt has to smile at the picture he presents, hair sticking up at the back and tufts of foam on his nose and ears. He doesn't act at all weird or put off, and the anxious ball in Newt's chest loosens.

"Nothing, just... good morning."

Hermann frowns.

"You couldn't have told me that in five minutes?" 

"Absolutely not," Newt says, "it's really important that I wish you a good morning as soon as I wake up or it doesn't work. You clearly don't know anything at all about how the universe operates."

Hermann's frown turns into a glare, somewhat offset in its intimidation by all the foam on his face.

"You should shave, too," is his only reply before he closes the door again.

"You didn't say good morning back!" Newt yells. "Do you not want me to have a good morning, Hermann?"

"No," is the muffled answer.

Newt grins. Nope, definitely regular Hermann.

He tries to ignore the disappointment lurking at the back of his mind, the little voice that wishes that Hermann had reacted to it in some way after all, that it wasn't just meaningless to him.

Newt huffs out a breath and drags himself out of the warm sheets, fishing for presentation-appropriate clothes in his suitcase. He has bigger things to worry about right now than a school-girl crush.

Predictably, the whole thing is a bit of a disaster. The panel doesn't even let Newt and Hermann get halfway through their whole spiel before cutting them off, and, okay, maybe Newt shouldn't have insulted them to their face but to be fair, they worked very hard on that PowerPoint.

The taxi ride back to the hotel is tense. Hermann is silent, head drooping against the window and mouth turned downwards like an upset-looking parenthesis. Newt, in contrast, feels like he's vibrating out of his skin, legs tapping to an uneasy rhythm. He can't help recalling Pentecost's stern voice after every failure, how serious he sounded when he told them that the fate of the PPDC was resting on their shoulders.

Fat good they did him so far. It seems like all this trip is accomplishing is the PPDC wasting even more money. 

"This is so pointless," Newt mumbles under his breath, and doesn't know if he means the grovelling in front of panels, or the entire damn war effort.

"It's not," Hermann says quietly. Newt startles and turns to him: his eyes are still closed, hands primly folded over his legs.

"It's not pointless," he repeats. "Thinking like that is handing them victory."

Newt snorts.

"Thanks for the motivational poster slogans," he says, and it comes out more bitter than he intended.

Hermann looks up then, and his gaze is so kind that it makes Newt's skin itch. He doesn't want kind right now, doesn't want pity and understanding. He wants to get mad, wants for Hermann to push back against the anger that's making Newt's fingers tremble. He wants to yell and fight, and let the rage carry him, because that's the only way he seems to find the energy to go on anymore these days.

But Hermann doesn't do any of those things. Instead, he reaches out and gently folds his palm over Newt's shaking hand.

"Even if we can't change the future, it will not have been pointless."

"How the hell does that make any sense at all, Hermann?"

"I don't know about you," Hermann says, and his hand is warm, soft, a solid weight against the current in Newt's body, "but I'd like to be able to live with myself when I die."

His mouth turns up at the corners just the slightest bit, eyes crinkling. Newt wants to kiss him right on his stupid, smirking face. He pulls his hand out from underneath Hermann's and focuses his gaze on the raindrops running down the cab window; he desperately hopes his heartbeat isn't as loud as it feels.

"Yeah, well, some of us aren't in it for moral superiority, you know. I'd just like to _live_ , full stop."

Hermann huffs out a laugh.

"Who knows, maybe they will accept you as one of their own. You're covered in enough of them."

"Uh, hell yeah. I'll rule over all you peasants," Newt says, involuntary smile threatening to break out on his face. "My first action as supreme ruler is gonna be banning tweed."

"On second thought," Hermann says, "maybe we should just surrender and die."

Newt doesn't stop smiling for the entire rest of the drive.

Neither of them really feels like sightseeing. Hermann commandeers the narrow desk with his laptop and spends several hours typing aggressively on it while Newt surfs the internet on his tablet.

"I really don't know why you still bother with these things," he says, watching Hermann's fingers fly over the keys. "They're so clunky."

"I hate touch screens," Hermann mutters. "Not fast enough."

"Is that why you insist on using chalkboards despite the fact that you have enough computational power to simulate a moderately stupid AI, or is that just for the aesthetic?"

He can almost see the little thundercloud over Hermann's head as he answers.

"I like chalk."

Newt actually has to laugh out loud at that one, but it's fond.

"You weirdo," he says, and doesn't even try to disguise the warmth in his tone.

Newt watches the blue light of the laptop screen move over Hermann's intent face and tries not to think about the weird, tender feeling in his chest. He's not very successful.

They take turns showering. By the time Newt returns to the bedroom, toweling off his dripping hair, Hermann is already fast asleep.

Newt allows himself to study the way Hermann's fingers fan over the white sheets for just a moment, eyes tracking over his pale forearms and bony elbows to the soft, downy hair on his biceps. He swallows.

He really should get a handle on this.

Newt sets his alarm and slips under the covers. He lies facing Hermann this time, watches the slow rise and fall of his chest and the way shadows pool in his clavicle until his eyes are too heavy to keep them open any longer.

When he finally sleeps, he dreams of a warm hand on top of his.

The second time it happens, Newt comes to slowly. He's faintly aware of Hermann's breath stirring his hair even before his body registers the arm haphazardly slung around his waist. Newt blinks into the darkness until his eyes focus on Hermann's face.

He's shifted closer overnight, much closer. He's close enough to touch, Newt thinks, and the problem is that he wants to. He wants to touch very badly. Their skin is touching where Newt's shirt has ridden up and Newt tries to focus on anything but that one point of contact, and fails miserably.

His breathing seems too loud in his own ears. He slowly reaches out and traces Hermann's face gently with his hand, fingers trailing over his cheekbone.

Hermann makes a soft noise and Newt snatches his hand away like he was burned. His heart hammers in his chest and he tries to inch out from under Hermann's grasp, but it's already too late. He can feel Hermann's even breathing stutter out of rhythm.

Hermann's face scrunches up and then his eyes slowly blink open. Newt freezes in place, eyes flitting everywhere but Hermann's own.

"Newton?" Hermann says, his voice small.

"Go back to sleep, Herms," Newt says, but Hermann's eyes are already widening with shock, and then he's scrambling backwards, almost falling out of bed in the process.

"Oh no," he says, "oh no, I am– I am so sorry."

"It's fine," Newt says, "really, Herms, it's okay," but Hermann isn't listening. He's gathering the blanket in front of him like a shield before peering at Newt from behind a wall of cotton.

"I am so sorry for disturbing your sleep," he says. "This is absolutely inappropriate behavior–"

"It really is totally okay–"

"–and you shouldn't have to put up with this–"

"–I honestly don't mind–"

"–and I will try my hardest to–"

"–I know you didn't mean it that way," Newt says, and somehow that part came out a lot more bitter than he wanted it to.

Hermann stops mid-sentence.

"What way?" he says, eyes wide and fingers fluttering against the sheets.

"You know," Newt says, laughing awkwardly. "You don't– you're not– this isn't–"

He trails off.

"No," Hermann says, "I don't know."

He sounds earnestly confused, and Newt's face is burning with shame for taking advantage of Hermann in that way.

"I'm the one who should apologize, Hermann. I shouldn't have let you do that," he says. His voice sounds shaky even to his own ears.

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Hermann says, but Newt doesn't even let him finish.

"I should have stopped you as soon as I noticed, but you were so tired last night, and it felt so nice, and I just–"

"It happened last night, too?" Hermann exclaims, alarmed, before registering the rest of Newt's sentence. His mouth forms a small, surprised O.

"It felt nice?"

Newt presses his face into the sheet and groans into it.

"This is my nightmare," he says. "Any minute I'm going to wake up, or alternatively discover I'm naked."

Hermann's hand tentatively touches his naked shoulder, and Newt can't help but shiver at the contact. Hermann's fingers are always so cold.

"Newt," he says, so softly that it hurts, and Newt forces himself to look Hermann in the eyes.

"Yes," Newt replies, "it felt nice. This," he gestures to Hermann's hand on his shoulder, "it's nice."

He inhales deeply before stuttering out the next sentence.

"I like being close to you."

Hermann's thumb starts slowly stroking over Newt's collarbone, and it makes the hairs on the back of Newt's neck stand up.

"I like you," Newt admits. His voice sounds small even to his own ears.

Hermann is quiet for a few seconds. Then he slowly but deliberately drags his hand up from Newt's shoulder to his neck before gently cupping his cheek.

"I like you, too," he says. His voice is still rough from sleep, croaky and awkward. It's the most beautiful thing Newt has ever heard.

Hermann bends down and hovers in front of Newt for a bit, searching his face. Then he gently presses his lips to Newt's mouth.

Newt's hands fly out automatically, clutching into Hermann's pyjama top. He makes the most embarrassing noise and doesn't care at all, kissing Hermann back so urgently that their noses bump together.

Hermann breaks off and giggles, then realigns them and kisses Newt again, his mouth warm and dry and absolutely fucking perfect.

They don't get much sleep that night.


End file.
